


If There's No One Beside You

by DoAsYouWill



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Clyde's POV, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 20:35:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15151316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoAsYouWill/pseuds/DoAsYouWill
Summary: Today’s the day.If you were to ask anybody in South Park what day I’m referring to, they’d probably tell you the same thing. Because, regardless of who you ask, they know. Even if they weren’t involved, they know. Everybody knows. It was a pretty public event. Most everybody has enough decency not to be an asshole about it. And the people who don’t have the decency are usually shamed into having it pretty quickly.





	If There's No One Beside You

**Author's Note:**

> Made some edits. I wrote this on very little sleep and uploaded it in a moment of delirium. Sorry if it totally sucks, I don't write character deaths very often.

Fuck.

August 3rd.

Today’s the day.

If you were to ask anybody in South Park what day I’m referring to, they’d probably tell you the same thing. Because, regardless of who you ask, they know. Even if they weren’t involved, they know. Everybody knows. It was a pretty public event. Most everybody has enough decency not to be an asshole about it. And the people who don’t have the decency are usually shamed into having it pretty quickly.

It’s probably the worst day of the entire year, and that’s saying a lot. Well. Maybe it doesn’t top the day my mom died. But it’s close.

It’s _really_ close.

Especially for Craig. Which means that me, Token, and Jimmy have to stay as near him as possible. Even at thirty-four, August 3rd is a Babysit Craig day, because we’re all scared of what will happen if he’s left alone. For fuck’s sake, it happened three years ago, but it still feels like it happened yesterday.

It hit all of us hard when we found out. I don’t want to make it sound like it was only Craig that felt that bullet-like hole in his chest when we all got the phone call. Craig knew first, obviously. They call the spouse first, right? I’m pretty sure that’s how it happens, they alert the closest family member, and _fuck_ if they weren’t close.

Craig was missing at the funeral, but we saw him briefly at the wake. He told everybody to leave the room where the open casket was, and he locked himself inside. Which wasn’t allowed, but the morticians were scared of Craig’s erratic behavior. And of his height; he was a solid 6’4’’, and I think morticians have to be under 5’8’’ as a rule. He was in there for a _really_ long time. We tried to stop him before he could run away, but he somehow slipped past us, and we didn’t find him for two days. To this day, I have no idea where he went, he never told any of us.

And that couple of days -- torture, to be honest -- is what lead to the whole _watching over Craig like we’re his worried parents_ thing. We’ve gotten it down to a science at this point. It happens in shifts, mostly. Jimmy takes the morning shift, (he’s the least cranky in the morning), which actually means he has to spend the night with Craig leading up to the morning shift, because once the clock strikes midnight, it is August 3rd in every sense of the term. Token takes the afternoon shift, because he’s really good at making up fun shit for them to do to pass the time. We all go to his apartment for the evening shift, but only I sleep over. Craig and I are best friends, like Kyle and Stan but a lot less gay, so it’s always the two of us at night. The night is the worst, because he usually staves off crying for most of the day, and lets it all out the second Jimmy and Token are gone.

He doesn’t share his bed, so I have to sleep on the floor, but it’s worth it to wake up in the morning and see his face, and hear his mouth tell me that, “Yeah. I’ll be okay.”

 

I’m on break from work at the office, (about nine o’clock), when I get a call from Jimmy. Which is strange, because there usually isn’t enough time for us to be calling each other, but I answer my phone before I have a chance to overthink it. “Hey, Jimmy --”

“ _Craig’s mis . . . Craig’s miss . . . Craig’s m_ iiiii _ss . . . Craig’s missing._ ”

I feel a sharp pang in my chest once Jimmy gets all the words out, and I almost drop my phone. I pull myself together quickly and ask, “ _What_? How is he _missing_?”

“ _I woke up this morning, and he was_ gone _,_ ” Jimmy answered. His stuttering voice is full of regret, and I almost can’t be mad at him. Craig can be a sneaky little shit sometimes. If I was in Jimmy’s place, that would’ve happened to me too.

“I’ll be over as soon as I can,” I say to him, and I hang up before he can answer.

I get all my shit together, and run down the hall to my manager’s office. I knock on her door twice, and then open it without waiting for an answer. My manager tenses, a stack of papers flying out of her hands, and she mutters a very audible, “ _Fuck_.” She squeezes her eyes shut, but then opens them again, and stares at me with a raised eyebrow. “Yes, Clyde?” she asks slowly.

“It’s Craig,” I say quickly, tapping at the watch on my wrist. “I have to leave.”

A look of understanding crosses her face, and she nods. “Don’t worry about clocking out, I’ll take care of it.”

I give her a breathless, relieved smile. Well, as much of a smile as I’m capable of. This is one of the perks of everyone knowing. I don’t have to explain myself when shit happens. “Thank you,” I respond, giving her a polite wave as I release the door, letting it slam behind me. Without explaining myself to my confused coworkers, I run past all their cubicles, sprint down the stairs, (I have no patience for elevators), and book it to my car.

 

As I’m driving, I get a call from Token. Even though it’s illegal, I answer it anyway, because I have no time to follow _laws_. “Any news?”

A sigh reaches my ears. “ _Yeah. I found him. Don’t bothering coming to Craig’s apartment, go to Cemetery Street._ ”

Token doesn’t have to say it, I know what he means. There’s only one thing on Cemetery Street. Do the math yourself.

I chew on my bottom lip. “Okay, I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“ _Make it now,_ ” Token says, his voice firm and unwavering.

I really appreciate Token’s ability to be calm in horrible circumstances, because I can’t do that right now. I can do the opposite, which means panic and cry, but there’s no possibility of me reaching that comforting stoicism that Token and Craig, and even Jimmy on occasion, can. Although, over the years, Craig’s stoicism has faded and turned into depression. Which sometimes looks the same, but trust me, it’s not.

“Okay,” I answer, and neither of say goodbye as we hang up.

 

Jimmy and Token are waiting for me at the gates of the cemetery by the time I get there. Token’s car is parked so close to the ditch -- trust South Park not to have cemetery parking -- that it looks like it’s half vertical. I don’t really think about it too much other than that first thought, and I park right next to him.

I climb out quickly and slam my door shut harder than I probably need to. I run over to them, and wipe at the tears on my cheeks. “Where is he?” I ask.

Token wordlessly gestures for me to follow him, and he leads the way to where I know he’s taking us. I’ve been there about a million times. We walk for ten seconds tops, in the direction of a grave that bears the words: “ _We’ll hold each other soon_ ”, carved into the headstone. (Craig chose the quote. Nobody dared to fight him on it, for fear of him killing them.) But, before we can get too close, Token holds us back and whispers, “I don’t want to scare him.”

And I understand why. Craig is laying on the grass, right above where the coffin rests, hidden beneath six feet of earth, and thick, luscious grass. He’s on his side, half curled into himself, a single red rose clutched in his hands. There are thorns most likely digging into his fingers, but if it bothers him, it doesn’t show in his face.

He’s wearing his chullo again. He ditched that thing forever ago. I thought he burned it. It looks a little battered, and like it could use a few rounds in the washing machine, but it still fits him. I'm not entirely surprised, though; Craig has gotten really skinny over the past three years. There’s almost no fat on his body, which means his head is starting to look more like a bloated banana.

But the scariest part isn’t what he’s wearing, or what he’s holding, or even, really, what’s he _doing_. It’s what’s lying beside him.

A gun.

It almost looks like Craig’s forgotten it’s there, because it’s maybe a solid foot away from him, and he hasn’t shown any signs that he even knows it’s there.

But it is. And I know he's the one that put it there.

His lips are moving. He’s talking. Like, non-stop, constant talking. Even before the accident, that was extremely unCraiglike, let alone afterwards. I am immediately very interested in what he has to say, so I strain my ears to make sure I don't miss a word.

“. . . know you don’t like flowers, but I brought you a rose.” Craig’s voice is slurred, which means he’s drunk. That’s one of the biggest things that me, Token, and Jimmy have to look out for, because Craig has a bit of an alcohol addiction. It was pretty bad in college. He was always drunk. Tweek almost left him because of it. He got sober, though, and stayed that way -- with the help of a very determined support team -- for more than ten years. But he relapsed hard when we were all thirty-one, and, because we're all adults with individual, busy lives, it's hard to keep tabs on him all the time. We try to keep him safe, as much as we can, but Craig doesn't really give us opportunity to take care of him, even when we all know he needs. He barely lets us be _around_ him on August 3rd; the reason he even tolerates us is mostly out of defeat and indifference.

“If you squint, the petals look like your hair. All . . . everywhere.” Craig laughs. Actually . . . _laughs_. It’s been _years_ since I’ve heard him laugh, and it’s just like I remember: a series of snorts and short chuckles that is somehow deep and also nasally at the same time. It's the kind of laugh that sometimes will kill the mood, but will sometimes make everything better. 

His laughter slowly subsides, and he sighs deeply. “I’ve always loved your hair. It’s so pretty, you know that? And so soft. Honey. Sweetheart, honey, baby.” He chortles some more, and I almost can’t get enough of it. It’s so good to hear him laugh again, even though the circumstances are disturbing to say the least. And it breaks my heart that we’ll have to snap him out of it, because he sounds so happy.

“Sorry, I’m kind of really drunk,” he says, a wide smile crossing his lips. “But you don’t have to worry, because I’ll be okay. I know you worry too much.”

I sigh deeply, and glance over at Token. He looks so worried, and it’s so weird to see him look so worried, because he never looks worried. Token’s a cucumber. Nothing shakes him. But I guess seeing our best friend drunk, and talking to his dead boyfriend on the anniversary that his boyfriend died would be enough to throw someone off their game.

“I know it’s been awhile since I’ve visited,” Craig continues with a sigh, though this one much sadder, and apologetic. When I look over at him again, he’s propping himself up on one elbow and staring at the headstone. His face is shifted away so I can’t really see it all that well, but his voice is enough. It’s too much, but it’s also enough. “I try to as much as I can. I know you don’t like being alone for too long, but it’s hard. Clyde and Token and Jimmy, they . . . they don’t ever leave _me_ alone. It drives me crazy. But I realized something, and I can’t believe it took me . . . took me this _long_. It’s so _obvious_.

“We were going to be together forever, right?” he says. “But you’re. You know. _Here_. And I’m not. And you’re . . .” Craig’s breath hitches, and he’s quiet for a few seconds. “You’re not coming back,” he said so softly I almost don’t hear him. “So that means that I have to go to you.”

Craig slowly sits himself upright, grunting at every bend of a joint, like he’s in pain. And he probably is, Craig’s skin is tight over his bones.

He crosses his legs, his body at an angle so we can still somewhat see him. He caresses the stem of the rose like the thorns don’t hurt him. “If it’s to reunite with someone you love,” he says gently, “God won’t like . . . send me to hell, will he? That’s a good reason, isn’t it?” He sighs. “But if it’s bad anyway . . . like, if it doesn’t matter _why_ I’m doing it . . . and I _do_ go to hell. What happens then? We’ll still be away from each other, and it’ll still hurt.” He’s quiet. “I guess that’s why I haven’t done this yet. Because you can’t be in hell. You’re _Tweek_.”

It sounds ridiculous, but if you knew Tweek, it would make sense. He wasn’t exactly an angel, but he had a heart of gold.

“But I can’t do this anymore. I think I’m done.” Craig heaves a sigh, and he places the rose gently at the base of the stone. “Is there anything else I should . . . say? Or do?” There isn’t an answer, because Craig’s having a conversation with a rock, but I guess Craig hears, or thinks he hears, what he wants, because he tilts his head. “I think this is it.” He reaches blindly for the gun then, and mumbles just barely loud enough for the three of us to hear it, “I’ll love you forever. Even if I’m in hell and you’re in heaven, I’ll still be loving you, okay?”

But I’m running the second his fingers touch the barrel. And I don’t try to mask my footsteps, either. Craig’s gonna notice we’re there sooner or later.  

Token gets to him first, and he wrenches the gun from Craig’s drunken fingers and throws it somewhere. Craig jolts, his hands flying up defensively -- sloppily, but sharp enough -- but, when his eyes settle on Token, he blinks a few times, his face going slack. "Uh . . . Token? What -- what are you --" 

I slide up next to Token and kneel next to Craig, pulling him into a hug so tight that it actually hurts a little bit.

“C-Clyde?” Craig says. He doesn’t react to my hug, but I think he’s probably too surprised to push me away.

“H-h-hey, pal,” Jimmy greets.

I pull back to see how Craig is fairly with us suddenly showing up during a very . . . private, I guess, moment. Craig looks at all of us through bleary, hazy eyes, and it looks like he’s trying to figure out if we’re hallucinations or not. “What are you guys doing here?” he asks finally.

“You weren’t in your apartment this morning,” Token explains. “We looked all over for you.”

“I was . . . here,” Craig says distantly, looking over briefly at Tweek’s headstone.

“We know,” I say, trying to clear my throat to shake off my tears. I start to pull Craig slowly to his feet, keeping a careful eye on his face. There are a lot of emotions rapidly possessing his normally-pretty-neutral features. And, for a few seconds at least, he lets me move him, but then his muscles tense and he says,

“You’ve been here . . . ”

And then horrified realization blossoms over his face.

He pulls away from me quicker than I’m able to react, but he only gets a few steps before Token grabs hold of Craig’s sweatshirt -- honestly, a _sweatshirt_ , at the beginning of August -- and reels him back to us.

“We’re not letting you run away again,” Token says seriously. “You gave us all a heart attack.”

Craig pushes Token away from him harshly, and then tries to fucking run away fucking again, that mother _fucker_ , but, with a growl, I reach for him, and pull him into a tight hug again.

Craig struggles against me, turning around in my arms to try to run away. But he’s lost so much muscle mass, and he’s also drunk off his ass, so I overpower him pretty easily. I pull him to the ground, and wrap my arms around his chest from behind. He’s still thrashing, but he’s quickly losing the strength to resist, and finally, he falls limp against me, his chest caving in under my arms when tears begin to wrack his entire body.

“ _I was so close,_ ” he moans between cries, covering his face with his hands.

We all sit there for a very long time. Craig’s sobs don’t stop, and we don’t know what to do, we don’t know how to help him, because we don’t know if we can.

Eventually, he starts to calm down, his breath coming in short gasps and hiccups bouncing his chest every few seconds. I wait for him to talk, because I don't have any words that will make the situation somehow better than it is.

“I have to see him,” he says, his voice lowered to a plea. “This . . . I’ll try again, so just let me do it _now_. And get it _over_ with. I won't even feel it --”

“No,” I answer, resting my cheek on the top of his head. I want him to stop talking. “Because the way you feel now, is the way you’ll make all three of us feel if you kill yourself. Do you want that?”

He groans. “No one . . . _no one_ deserves this.” He rests his head on my chest completely, and I’m feeling pretty grateful that he trusts at least one of us enough to take care of him. That usually isn't the case. Or maybe he's just given up entirely.

“Then don’t do that to us,” Token says, and I look over at him. He’s sitting by Craig’s side, wisely keeping his hands to himself, and his face is twisted with sadness. And on Craig’s other side is Jimmy, his legs stretched out in front of him and his crutches laying in a pile next to him.

“But . . . if it’s selfish of me to want to leave, then it’s selfish of you to stop me,” Craig answers, his muscles tensing beneath my hand.

I don’t know to respond to that because, really, my motivations _are_ very selfish. I don’t want Craig to die. He’s my best friend. He very obviously is itching for death, but I’m holding him back. It’s not like I’m going to apologize for stopping my best friend from committing suicide, but I appreciate how he’s viewing the situation.

“You’re my best friend,” I say, tightening my grip on him on reflex. “I can’t lose you, and I’m not _going_ to lose you.”

“I can’t imagine anything wor . . . wor . . . _worse_.”

Craig heaves a long, painful sigh, and with that, I know that he’s done. All the fight’s gone, and he’ll come with us. That’s a good thing, for the time being. Because Craig Surveillance needs to be upped, badly.

I bring Craig’s arm around my neck, and wrap my arm around his waist, and I haul him to his feet. Even though he’s lost so much weight, he’s still a giant. That’s something about our Craig that will never change.

None of us grab the rose. And nobody makes a move to find the gun, wherever Token threw it. We all just slowly migrate to the entrance of the cemetery. I stare at Craig out of the corner of my eye, and my suspicions clam up when I see him turn his head slowly, and give a long, wistful, almost promising glance at the head stone. I don’t like the look in his eyes, but there’s nothing I can do about it. There are a million things that that glance can mean, and I don’t have the energy to go through all of them.

Craig squeezes his eyes shut, clamps his teeth around his bottom lip, and lets us walk him past all the other headstones of people that died like Tweek did -- accidentally, and without warning. He keeps his head down, and leans most of his weight onto me, but I don’t care.

I’ll always be here to hold him up.


End file.
